


Prodigal Son

by thirdholmes



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Endeavour Morse Whump, Eventual Relationships, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Morse Whump, Murder, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Protective Fred Thursday, Serial Killer, The Thursdays Adopt Endeavour Morse, Torture, alternate timeline I guess, someone give Jakes a hug he's doing his best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25906354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdholmes/pseuds/thirdholmes
Summary: When Morse is abducted and found half dead nearly two weeks later the suspicions go to Oxford’s most recent serial killer- only, he’s supposed to have already been caught. Faced with their failure, it’s up to CID to find the real killer, but with only Morse’s notes, a wrongful conviction, and a missing child to go by it’s beginning to look like Thursday’s bagman may have gotten himself tangled up in a mystery only he was able to solve.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 17
Kudos: 67





	1. Flares

Sergeant Peter Jakes gripped the steering wheel tight as he waited outside of the Thursday residence, unable to work up the courage to bring himself to the front step. He could picture the motions so vividly even as he remained immobile, the humming of the engine nowhere near loud enough to drown out his thoughts. 

The path up to the house would be icy. He knows that. There’s the gentle sheen of the glassy pavement in the blinding white light of the winter sky, only just tempered by the light dusting of snow that’s already beginning to fall. The path is icy, so he would walk on the grass, snow and dead blades crunching under the soles of his shoes. 

The heat from the car would only last him so long and his breath would be clouding in front of his face as he reached the door, knocking stiffly with his raw knuckles. They’re split from the cold and the wall that took a pounding before he dragged himself from his own flat less than an hour ago. He should have put something on his knuckles before he left. Ointment, bandages, anything. Instead, Jakes is left staring at them clenched around the steering wheel, bloody and torn skin stretched over the small, aching bones. 

Why shouldn’t he have to look at them? Why shouldn’t he have to feel the pain? 

No answer satisfies him. 

His body is in the driver’s seat but his mind is on the doorstep. Because that’s where he would be standing if not for his cowardice. He would be waiting to hear footsteps on the other side of the door before the locks clicked for the first time that day and it opened to reveal one of them. Sam. Joan. Mrs. Thursday. They would stare back at Jakes, and he would see the question and hurt in their eyes. 

Because it’s Jakes at the door to fetch Thursday. And he’s not the one they’re looking for. 

So he waits in the car. For all their sakes. 

Jakes only had to wait a minute longer before Inspector Thursday closed the front door behind him, the Christmas wreath swinging on the nail from the force. He shuffled carefully down the front path, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Thursday’s movements were slow and exhausted, Jakes noticed, and his age was beginning to show in his spine as he barely forced himself upright to finish the short trek to the Jag. 

Cold winter air flew into the vehicle, light flakes of snow swirling around the interior as Thursday settled himself in the passenger seat, the door snapping shut behind him, moreso from the wind than Thursday’s own power. He glanced over at Jakes, his eyes skirting over his sergeant’s bloody knuckles, but said nothing. Because there was nothing to say, was there? Thursday’s own hands were only intact that morning because he would have frightened his wife and children by unleashing his rage upon the papered walls. 

Maybe there was some envy in his eyes. That Jakes could take out his anger when he needed to. That he could break through the suffocating shroud of despair and actually _feel_ something. Even if that something was a harsh external pain. At least it challenged the dull, gnawing one within. 

The air in the car was beginning to turn tepid. Jakes turned the key in the ignition and the heat returned in full blast as he drove off down the street in the direction of far away Wolvercote. 

There was the telltale crinkle of wax paper in Thursday’s pocket as he reached a barely steady hand in to retrieve his pipe. Despite the world all but crashing down around their ears, Win Thursday still made sure her husband hadn’t left the house without his sandwiches. 

Morse can tell the days of the week by those sandwiches. A neat trick. But Jakes doesn’t need the contents of the inspector’s lunch to know what day it is. 

It’s the tenth. The tenth day since Morse went missing. 

The day they start looking for a body. 

And Thursday knew it too. Because that’s what the letter said. _Ten days._ It arrived at the station the same day Morse was taken, deposited on the constable’s desk in a plain brown parcel. Gruesomely, it was accompanied by a light blue tie, still wet with blood. 

It’s been ten days. The blood had long since dried. And Thursday still thought that Jakes didn’t know he kept it in his coat pocket all this time like a grim sort of talisman, a reminder. A reminder of what was at stake. A reminder of the man that was lost. 

Jakes remembered that tie. After all, it was he that snuck a look in the records to tell Mrs. Thursday when Morse’s birthday was so she could give him a gift. They were sitting at their usual spot in the Flag, their drinks half empty and sandwiches long since eaten, when Thursday withdrew the neatly wrapped package from his coat pocket and handed it to Morse, a warm smile on the old man’s face. Apparently Win thought the tie matched Morse’s eyes rather nicely. She was far too right. That was why Jakes was more than happy to let Thursday keep it tucked away in his pocket. Jakes didn’t need to be reminded of the colour of Morse’s eyes. Because then the image in his head of them wide with fear or tight with pain or frozen in death would only be that much more realistic. His nightmares had enough fuel as it was. 

“Where are we headed?” Thursday’s voice was brittle when he finally spoke, his pipe unlit in his hand. 

_Wolvercote._ The final letter had come into the station that morning and reached Jakes where he was half asleep at his desk, a weary sentinel. Morse’s own desk across from his was far too empty and tidy from the cleaners, his normal slight disarray of papers tucked away into drawers, typewriter made straight, position fixed from where Morse had moved it closer. It seemed more like a memorial than a workspace. Except it couldn’t be a memorial, not the way it looked now, every trace of the man who once occupied the space wiped clean away like a slate. It was hollow to look at, to see the absence, the void, and to then feel it as clearly as something gone missing in Jakes’ own chest. 

And that missing piece was somewhere out in Wolvercote. There was no faith to be had in a force above, only in the typewritten letters of an unknown madman. Letters that taunted, teased, reminded them of what was at stake when it was all they could think about. He’d called Thursday before going to pick him up, reading out the letter over the phone before sending it off to forensics. 

_Wolvercote._

“County’s lending us a handful of men to help search the meadows near the lakes and river,” Jakes relayed what he was told when he went into the station earlier to fetch the car. Snowflakes were gathering on the windscreen, flying at the vehicle in a white flurry, beginning to pick up pace. He turned on the wipers to clear his view of the road which was starting to be buried itself. “They reckon the best place to look is the commons near Port Meadow but there’s some worry that Wolvercote is misleading and we may have to look as far as Wytham Wood.”

Thursday shook his head miserably, only the barest of movements. “It’ll be hell if the snow keeps up. There was already a good two inches on the ground before it started to come down.”

“We can’t just leave him out there, sir.” Jakes swallowed thickly, keeping his eyes trained on the road. 

He didn’t know why he said it, but he had to. Even dead, they couldn’t leave Morse’s body out in the cold to be buried prematurely under feet of snow. It would have felt like one final act against him. Ten days was a long time to suffer, and no one had the faintest idea what had happened to him in that time. Let him be found with a little dignity when he was intended to be, not days later when he was already frozen stiff and distorted by death’s merciless process. They couldn’t do that to him. Not Morse. Not Thursday’s son. Not Morse. Never. 

There was a slight shuffling as Thursday turned to face out the window, his body angled away from the sergeant. 

“I never said we should, Jakes.” 

Wound around his hand was Morse’s tie, the edges dark with old blood. 

\------

There were cars waiting alongside the field, nothing but a barren expanse of white and cold with copses of dead trees hugging the bend of the river and littered around in haphazard clumps. The skeletal branches reached up as snow fell, spindly and vaguely macabre against the plain backdrop of the endless pale sky. In the distance, Jakes could see the dark form of Wytham Wood, foreboding and grim from the cruel touch of winter. 

He suppressed a shiver and tried to focus on the warmth of the air circulating around the inside of the Jag. Better enjoy it while it lasted. 

Then, he thought of Morse’s body, cast out in the cold by his captor- his murderer. Left there like a piece of rubbish. Alone and unloved. Nothing could thaw the chill that thought sent down his spine. 

The tyres protested as the vehicle moved across the snow packed road and Jakes slowed carefully in his haste, stopping them behind the nearest police vehicle. One last car ambled up the road behind them. Steeling himself for the cold, Jakes killed the engine and tucked the keys safely in his pocket, stepping out into the snow the same time as Thursday. 

Immediately, the wind whipped around them, nearly knocking Thursday’s trillby loose, and Jakes hair flew across his forehead in chaotic waves. He hadn’t bothered with any product. Gone was the energy to try and make himself look presentable with each day that passed since Morse’s disappearance but he was glad of it since the temperature was liable to have frozen the pomade. The wind calmed and he wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, flipping up the collar of his thick coat and buttoning the lighter one underneath as he made his way up to the vehicle at the front of the group- the one Bright and Strange were climbing out of. 

Unfamiliar officers from County blended with the small group of boys from the nick, all crowding around the Chief Superintendent’s car as Strange wrenched the boot open and began distributing what meagre supplies they’d been able to rustle up. The constable’s motions were stiff, mechanical, and he held his jaw firm, working an impassive expression over his face. Better than broadcasting the grim hopelessness. 

The cold air stung Jakes eyes and the tip of his nose began to hurt as the wind picked up once again, snow wrapping around the congregation of officers, half blinding them as they began to prepare for the hours ahead. 

_Hours._ Jakes closed his eyes. He hoped it wouldn't take that long. 

“Morning, matey,” Strange greeted Jakes solemnly, handing him a pair of boots, a whistle, and a small, almost satirical looking pistol with a wide barrel. A flare gun. The sergeant looked as if he hadn’t slept much at all, heavy circles carved deep beneath his eyes that Jakes knew were mirrored in his own. “Got gloves, have you?”

Jakes nodded, tucking the whistle and flare gun into his pocket and pulling out the warm pair of gloves he’d brought with him, tugging them on before stepping aside to let others forward. His stomach was in knots, heart in his throat, as the reality of the situation sank in like a stone through icy water. He wanted so badly for it all to be a nightmare, just a bad dream, but as Jakes braced himself against the side of a car to wrestle on the boots, he knew it had to be real. 

Still, it would’ve been a great time to wake up. 

Inspector Thursday moved to stand beside Bright, his face falling as he surveyed the small group of men assembled before them. He looked anguished, and as Jakes looked around him he saw that there couldn’t be more than ten people at most. It was hardly the search party they were hoping for. 

“County couldn’t spare a few more men?” Thursday’s voice sounded cracked as he turned to the chief superintendent. “There’s a fair bit of ground to cover.”

That was an understatement. Jakes looked across both sides of the road at the vast, snow covered grasslands that stretched out on either side. Port Meadow and the distant rooftops of Summertown to his right, and to his left- fields. And the dark trees of Wytham Wood. 

Morse was out there somewhere. If the letter was to be believed. 

Jakes tasted bile in the back of his throat as he recalled the phrasing, each typed letter feeling like it was punched into his chest. 

_‘The day has come. I think I shall leave your boy out in Wolvercote, Inspector. The land is so beautiful this time of year, wouldn’t you agree? Quiet and cold, much like a grave. You’ll thank me, I hope. It’s a good place for him to rest. And I don’t plan to make things easy for you.’_

The landscape, paired with the gradually worsening weather, was nothing less than formidable. 

“Hellish conditions, Thursday,” Bright sounded truly apologetic. “There’s a storm coming in from the north and, to top it off, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. The promise of overtime wasn’t compelling enough. All we have are these volunteers.”

Jakes could read between the lines there. The only people who showed up were the ones that either hadn’t been pissed off by Morse at some point in their career or simply didn’t have anything better to do. Maybe there were one or two good Samaritans. At least Strange, Thursday, Bright, and himself actually gave a damn. 

Thursday drew his shoulders back, straightening, and Jakes saw that familiar look pass over his face, the look of grim resolve, of gunmetal eyes, the determination of a soldier. There was nothing left for them to do now but press on. 

So they did. 

Each man was spread out over a significant distance in an attempt to cover as much ground as efficiently as possible with their small numbers. More men went toward the woods while fewer were left to canvass the blank white terrain where things would be far harder to miss. Things like a body. 

Morse’s body. 

All the awful images that flooded Jakes’ mind hardly phased him any longer. He’d been plagued by his imagination and nightmares for more than a week, picturing the different ways they’d discover Morse’s body. The worst was that they were supplemented by memories, memories of the horrible deeds Jakes had witnessed over the years, the worst things humans were capable of inflicting upon each other. Dozens of victims now all bore Morse’s face, pale in death and against the frigid landscape. Morse with his throat laid open, his pale eyes thrown open in one last expression of agony. Morse with his insides on display, a horrid mess of gore. Rarely did the images grant him something peaceful. A single gunshot wound concealed by the snow, his eyes closed as if in sleep. A line of bruising around his throat from where the life was choked from him, but the rest of his body, his face intact. 

Morse hated the sight of blood, the sight of death. Haemophobic, necrophobic, Dr. DeBryn had a fancy word for everything. Jakes had often teased Morse about such things, scoffing that he was in the wrong profession if he couldn’t handle a spot of blood now and then. Death wasn’t pretty. Not in their line of work. That was something to accept early on. 

But now, Jakes understood some of that fear, that repulsion. All of those things were easier to bear, easier to see when it wasn’t someone he- well, when it wasn’t _Morse._

The snow felt heavy under Jakes’ feet, not light and yielding, but packing and dense. And it was building rapidly as the snow choked wind swirled around him, whipping his scarf up into his face, his hair falling across his eyes which were squinted against the stinging air. Every breath felt like a chore to draw in and eventually Jakes had to wrap his scarf around the lower half of his face just to make the task easier. With the sudden increase in the storm’s ferocity and the amount of snow that was beginning to come, any hope of finding tracks was quickly dashed. Tyre impressions, footprints, they would have already been covered up by the unrelenting force of nature. When Jakes glanced behind him, he could hardly even see his own tracks. The road was only a faint image in the distance, veiled by snowfall, and the cars were already being covered. It would be best for him to just stick to a straight line, Jakes decided. He’d know which way led back to the road without even having to see it. 

He looked to both sides, trying to spot the other officers nearest him. There was a County man lost somewhere to his right, but Jakes couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of him on either side. Strange ought to be somewhere on his left, and Jakes thought he saw some semblance of movement through the curtain of snow, only to realise it was a blackbird heading for the trees. 

_Trees._

Jakes could see them now as he quickly came closer. It was just a sparse grouping of thin, emaciated trees that seemed to have wandered off from the thick grove just beyond it. He remembered seeing them distantly from the road, maybe about a quarter of a mile out. It was as good a landmark as he was going to get and he felt some relief at the sight. 

The blackbird landed on one of the lower branches and shuffled around to face the wind, ruffling its feather as it turned. Jakes’ gaze traveled down the tree and to the ground where there was an odd shape at the base of the slender trunk. It looked like a group of logs with a sheet of burlap tossed across it, just a bit of detritus that might have been blown off a passing farm vehicle. 

But there was something odd about that shape, and Jakes felt a growing sinking sensation in his stomach like it was gradually filling with cold lead. The blackbird’s chirping was nearly lost to the sound of the wind and it quickly hopped off the branch, soaring away to seek more proper shelter elsewhere. Jakes’ limbs were aching from the cold but he somehow managed to propel himself forward even quicker than he had before, finally reaching the small patch of trees. 

It was then that he saw what he hadn’t before. 

The burlap sheet seemed to be tucked around the form it was covering like the way a parent was supposed to with blankets around their child. It was distinctly body shaped, a sharp angle for bent knees, the figure beneath likely curled in some semblance of a foetal position. 

But what did it for him was the dull curls of copper hair peeking out from under the material where he knew the head was. 

“N- No.” Jakes moaned feebly, dropping to his knees in the snow. He should have reached for the flare gun in his pocket and sent up the signal. The whistle to sound off to Strange and the County man. But his hands couldn’t seem to help but grasp the edges of the burlap and pull it away to reveal the body underneath. 

The Morse in front of him didn’t look like the one Jakes remembered, nor the one he had been imagining. His chest and feet were bare, and his trousers hung low off his hips, hardly anything but bone and the barest flesh keeping them up in his sickly thin state. The lines of this Morse’s ribs stood out starkly among the sea of vicious wounds and cuts that marred his pale skin. There were too many for Jakes to take in, too many scabbed lines and angry lashes of broken flesh. Some injuries appeared so fresh they looked like they might still be bleeding, the snow around Morse speckled with red, burlap stained with it, the pristine white landscape stained with innocent blood. 

Every nightmare, every intrusive, miserable, devastating thought condensed now into a tangible reality as he looked down at Morse’s dead body, still and unmoving in the snow. 

There was something wrong about the dullness of Morse’s usual fire, not just the colour, but his vibrant presence. It was just… muted. Gone. What was it about the way winter just seemed hell bent on going after Morse? The Coke-Norris shooting, the Blackwood accident, his stint in prison- and now this. Like the cold wanted to extinguish him at any cost. 

Morse’s hands were tied in front of him with rough looking rope that had left a fair share of ugly scratches on his already bruised wrists. There was a uniformity to the shape of the bruises, and Jakes felt slightly nauseous as he recognized them for what they were. Shackle marks. The metal had left his skin raw and bleeding, discoloured and angry, and the sharp fibres of the rope certainly hadn’t helped. 

Jakes didn’t even have to think about it. He quickly set on undoing the ropes, gloved fingers fumbling for the knot and eventually getting it loose, unraveling it from around Morse’s wrists. Jakes swore. It had been wrapped _tight._ What was even the point of that? One last indignity to the man even in death? 

His fingers brushed over Morse’s wrists, tracing the angry lines bruised into his flesh, and that was when he got his answer. 

Morse _twitched._

At first Jakes thought it was his own doing, he’d jostled Morse’s arm with more force than he meant to. But then, in a heartstopping moment, Morse’s fingers began to twitch, haltingly curling inward. 

It was almost horrific to watch as Morse slowly returned to life before him, every motion a short, aborted jerk like a spasm, a rasping, guttural moan torn from his chapped and bloodied lips. His eyes didn’t open once, his lashes only fluttering slightly from the effort. 

“Morse…” Jakes breathed, his heart lodged fast in his throat as he choked out the man’s name, reaching for him again. “Morse, it’s me, it’s Jakes.”

All he got in response was a broken sound from the back of Morse’s throat, but it was so much better than nothing at all. 

This couldn’t be real. Morse couldn’t possibly be alive, not in his condition. He looked half dead- _was_ half dead. Frozen, broken, and bloodied. He couldn’t be alive. Shouldn’t be. 

But he was. He just wouldn’t be for much longer. 

Jakes suddenly came back to himself and fumbled for the whistle in his pocket, bringing it to his lips and blowing, sending the shrill, tinny sound out into the wind. It only seemed to return back to him and the sound came in stuttering bursts as he struggled to keep his own breath even, the shock of his discovery making it difficult to stay composed. His hands trembled and the whistle fell from his grasp and into the snow. Jakes didn’t even bother to pick it up, knowing what he had to do. He had to get Morse back to the road, but he wouldn’t make it like this. 

“I’m going to get you out of here, Morse,” Jakes promised, hoping he could hear him. His heart was hammering painfully in his chest and despite the chill that had seeped into his bones, this newfound sense of urgency spurred him on. He’d been expecting to find a body out there, and he did. He just hadn't anticipated finding one with life still in it. 

And Jakes had to protect that light at all costs. That small flame flickering in the wind was in his hands now and he had to guard it before any cruel force could snuff it out. 

He hardly had to think about it as he shucked off his outer coat and clumsily dragged Morse into a sitting position, propping the smaller man’s back up against the rough bark of the tree. This drew a fresh moan from Morse’s lips, quieter than the first, like whatever force had animated him in the first place was already fading from his body. Jakes felt a stab of guilt lance through his chest, sharper than the cold as he noticed an angry welt cresting over one of Morse’s bony shoulders. 

Whatever injuries Jakes could see across Morse’s chest were surely reflected across his back and the roughness of the tree against them couldn’t be anything less than painful. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-” Jakes choked out, scrambling to complete his task, clumsily tugging Morse’s arms through the sleeves and fitting the coat onto him. With only his thinner coat over his suit, Jakes was already beginning to feel the cold assault him with renewed vigour now that he was missing that crucial layer of protection. 

A small puff of breath formed in front of Morse’s lips like a sigh, and there was a flicker of content on his face as Jakes wrapped the soft material around him, the insides of the coat warm from Jakes’ own body heat. The expression was enough to make Jakes want to sob. He continued as best as he could to divest himself of anything he could bear being without, wrapping his scarf around Morse’s neck, slipping his gloves over stiff fingers and attempting to chafe some warmth into them. 

“Stay with me, Morse,” Jakes ordered when he saw Morse’s head begin to loll slightly, unable to keep himself sitting upright without Jakes’ assistance. He was undoing the laces of his boots now and paused to set Morse back against the tree, no longer painful with the coat to protect his torn flesh. “Come on now, give me a sign you sod.”

Another puff of breath. Jakes took it as a laugh. 

Jakes could hardly feel his toes now, but he jammed his bare feet back into the hard soled boots anyway, taking his socks and putting them over Morse’s own feet. It would have to do for now and Jakes needed the shoes if he was going to be carrying Morse back. 

“Up you go,” Jakes gritted his teeth as he carefully pulled Morse to his feet, trying to ignore the way the small whimper of pain stabbed into his chest as Morse’s injuries were jostled. “Let’s get you home, Morse. You’re going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.”

But it wasn’t. As Jakes attempted to pick Morse up, one arm underneath his knees to support him, Jakes nearly dropped him, almost sending him back down into the snow. His own arms were shaking too badly from the cold to manage it and despite how frighteningly light Morse was right now, it was beyond what he could physically muster. 

“You’re going to have to help me out here, Morse,” Jakes ground out, trying to keep his teeth from chattering as he pulled one of Morse’s arms over his shoulder, his own arm around Morse’s waist to support him. He held Morse’s gloved hand in the other, trying to keep his arm steady around Jake’s shoulders. “You’ve got some more fight in you, I know you do. If you can hear me, you need to walk. Please.”

There was no response from Morse, only the feeling of his head tipping against Jakes’. As Jakes began to move forward, however, Morse’s legs jerked awkwardly, taking unsteady, coltish steps alongside his own. He looked like a newborn foal just learning to walk, more error than trial, but it was enough to reinvigorate the flicker of hope in Jakes’ chest. They could do this. 

Reaching into the coat pocket, Jakes drew out the flare gun and aimed upward at a slight angle, his finger curling around the trigger as he fired. There was a loud pop and a sharp, jerky kickback as the flare was launched, sailing upward and eventually bursting in a small spray of red light and smoke that was all too quickly swept away by the wind. Jakes let out a brutal scream then, his voice and the cold air tearing at his throat as he cried out into the uncaring voice of white and cold. 

There was no time for that despair. He had to _move._

It was about halfway back by Jakes’ estimate before Morse’s movements beame far less reliable and soon he wasn’t moving much at all, merely allowing himself to be half dragged along by Jakes’ fading strength. Eventually, he began to slip from Jakes’ grasp nearly collapsing into the snow as the wind whipped around them mercilessly. 

“No!” Jakes shouted, hardly audible past the roaring of the wind. “No, come on!”

Morse didn’t respond or react, leaving Jakes to desperately try to reorient his hold on the man to keep him upright, keep them moving. He seemed to make an effort then, Morse’s knees locking and feet twitching in something barrely akin to walking. 

“How many times have you saved my neck, hm?” Jakes grunted, his voice half choked with tears that seemed to freeze before they had a chance to fall. He tightened his grip around Morse’s waist as he felt the thinner man sag, his knees buckling, legs limp once again. “No, Morse, you don’t get to do that to me. You don’t get to just give up.” 

Morse was no longer moving, slipping out of Jakes’ grasp like dead weight. The sergeant’s heart threatened to stop in his chest and Jakes scrambled for a better hold on Morse’s waist, throwing his arm back over his shoulders. “No! How many times have you saved me, Morse? Do you remember Blackwood? I’m not letting you leave me with this debt unpaid, so come on you bastard! Come on!”

No response. Jakes looked ahead at the distance to the road but it was almost impossible to see through the whiteout. Did anyone even see the flare? 

That was the least of his worries. His hands were frozen stiff and Jakes was rapidly losing sensation in his fingers, making it that much harder to keep hold of Morse. The torn skin of his knuckles felt burned from the cold and even his feet were becoming something of a distant memory as each step became more uncoordinated than the last. The light coat he’d been wearing under the thicker one he gave Morse was hardly doing its best to keep the frigid wind at bay. 

Frustrated tears bit at Jakes’ eyes and he let out another furious scream, the sound half lost to the wind. Even breathing in the air felt like inhaling glass, his throat raw from all the yelling. 

He wanted to check Morse for a pulse, just to remind himself of what hope felt like, but he doubted he’d even be able to tell with how frozen his fingers were. If there was even one to find. 

His knees gave out and Jakes finally collapsed, bringing Morse’s unresponsive body with him. Without thinking, he quickly dragged Morse closer to him, pillowing the younger man’s head on his upper legs. Morse’s face was far too pale, his freckles completely washed out, lips a bluish purple. There wasn’t even the slightest flutter of his fair lashes and Jakes’ heart stuttered in his chest. With increasing panic, he realised Morse wasn’t moving _at all_. He wasn’t even breathing. 

“No,” Jakes said numbly for lack of anything else to say. The wind snatched the plea away and whipped his hair across his forehead, sharp and stinging. Thinking was a luxury he couldn’t afford now so he let his muscles do the work for him, his uncooperative hands going into motion and beginning chest compressions, pressing down on Morse’s bony chest. 

Guilt lanced through him as he felt the roughness of dried blood beneath his palms, but there was hardly any stretch of skin left unscathed. Morse would have to forgive him later. There _had_ to be a later. 

Gently, he parted Morse’s split and bloodied lips so he could continue his resuscitation, blowing air into Morse’s still lungs, trying to coax a breath from him. 

“No,” Jakes repeated, shaking his head and doing another set of compressions, pinching Morse’s nose shut and giving him another breath. “No, come on, Morse. I owe you. I still owe you, you bastard!”

He went down to press his lips against Morse’s again when he felt a small puff of warmth against the tip of his nose. It wasn’t the sudden jolt back to life that Jakes would have expected. There was no violent spasm or moment of hallelujah as life was abruptly restored. Jakes watched with bated anticipation as Morse’s eyelids flickered again and his lips parted soundlessly, drawing in a shaky breath. 

Jakes’ shoulders sagged and he exhaled with sharp relief, fighting back a sob. Absently, he patted Morse’s shoulder, a tear falling from his face and into the snow. “That’s it, Morse. That’s it.”

There was a sudden flood of blinding light and Jakes shielded his eyes, looking away from them only to see a dark shape ambling toward him from the field, the direction they’d come from.

“Jakes!” Strange was shouting, running toward him through the snow, his face red and chafed from the wind and cold. It took a moment to realise that the lights were from a car’s headlamps just behind him, facing off the road and into the field. 

They were close. They were _so_ close. 

“I saw the flare,” Strange breathed, coming to a stop before him, his eyes falling down to the bundled form that lay across Jakes’ legs. An expression of deep anguish settled across his face and his knees became unsteady. “Oh, _Christ, no-”_

“He’s alive, Jim,” Jakes said tiredly, hardly able to feel his lips moving as he spoke. 

“Jakes, I don’t-”

“He’s alive!” Jakes shouted back, his voice choked with tears and frustration. 

As if on cue, Morse gave a small whimper, turning his head as if to escape the noise. 

Strange’s face suddenly went pale and he stared at Jakes for a brief moment before falling to his knees and gathering Morse up into his arms, doing what Jakes was unable to do before. 

“Get him out of here,” Jakes ordered wearily, sluggishly pulling himself to his feet. He wasn’t shivering anymore, but if he was remembering correctly that wasn’t a good sign. “Go. Go!”

The man was already moving, though, turning on his heels and rushing Morse toward the lights as Jakes haltingly followed, his legs moving without thought. His movements felt slow but he was only a few paces behind Strange and Morse at all times, somehow keeping up. 

Morse was alive. Morse was safe. Those were the only things he could think of, the only things that mattered. 

He kept moving, stumbling, walking, until the snow covered grass turned to snow covered pavement and a hand grabbed his shoulder, gentle but firm. 

Without further ceremony, Jakes collapsed onto a car bonnet, those same hands grabbing at him before he could hit the ground. 

“Get in the car, Jakes!” someone was shouting, some familiar voice, and he felt himself being shoved into the vehicle he’d fallen against, the sudden burst of hot air from the heater drawing a shocked breath from his throat. 

The door slammed shut behind him and Strange jumped into the driver’s seat, twisting the key in the ignition so hard Jakes feared it might snap off. The snow on his clothes was already melting from the hot air and his hair felt damp and uncomfortable on his brow, his shirt collar sticking to his neck, and he shivered, raising his shaking hands to the vents and allowing the warmth to crest over his frozen, stiff fingers. 

Tyres squealed as Strange turned the vehicle sharply around and a quiet, distressed sound came from the backseat.

It was only then that Jakes noticed Thursday was there as well, Morse’s body held close against his and covered by at least two more coats along with Jakes’. Morse’s face was tight with pain, his lips moving soundlessly, and Thursday only held him tighter, supporting him as Strange gunned it, the car driving dangerously fast. Quicker than an ambulance. 

Jakes met the inspector’s eyes. They were tired. So tired. But there was a gratitude in them that made Jakes’ throat seize up. Gratitude. Tiredness. Relief. 

And a question. 

_Why?_

Not how. _Why._ Why was Morse alive? After everything, the letters, the bloody tie, ten days in captivity- ten days of _torture,_ going by his injuries. And God knows how long he was left in the snow, tied up with only the burlap and his ill fitting trousers to shield his body from the elements. 

So, _why?_

Jakes didn’t know. It wasn’t something he could think about just then. 

He let his head fall back against the seat and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of Morse’s shallow, hoarse breathing from the backseat. 

_Alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Blame
> 
> This fic is certainly to end being a bit different than the others! It's my first proper attempt at writing Jarse (we can count Prisoner but it's really only there if you squint) so it'll be interesting writing someone other than Gael. I know I keep saying each fic is getting darker and darker and honestly- they are. This will not be a pleasant ride. I'm talking flashbacks, angst, the whole deal. 
> 
> The next update might not be that soon since I've got two other wips going at the moment and term's started so I have courses to deal with as well but I wanted to get this posted just to get a sense of what people think so far! I hope you'll stick around for this new journey


	2. Blame

Dr. DeBryn washed his hands thoroughly in the sink, scrubbing up to his forearms with the astringent bar of soap the hospital insisted on stocking up on. Even slick with water and lye it felt grating and rough against his skin, leaving it angry and pink. Everything smelled like ammonia in the mortuary. The cleaning solutions, the soap, the damned mop water the attendants used to clean the floors. He understood it was necessary. Everything had to be kept sanitary. He just wished it didn’t have to feel so suffocating. It was a far cry from the comforting scents of his own home, the small herb garden on the windowsill in his kitchen, the lemon cleaning solution, and the soapy detergent he used for nearly everything. To him death didn’t smell like rotting flesh or the acrid scent of blood. No, the scent of death was the lifeless sterility of layers and layers of bleach and lye. 

It was perhaps the one thing he hated about his job. Not the cold of the mortuary only amplified by the persistent winter chill that radiated through the not-thick-enough glass of the long windows, not the bodies themselves, not the way the locks seemed to stick after too much disuse. 

No, DeBryn thought as he dried his hands on the rough flannel. What he hated was the fact that he would soon be standing over Morse’s body, the thin lad laid out on the metal slab, stiller than he’d ever been in life. 

What he hated was the sudden scent of tobacco smoke that cut through the haze of ammonia. The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor. 

The figure of Inspector Thursday now in the doorway.

The old man looked positively haggard, a small puddle forming at his feet as melting snow dripped from his thick wool coat. His expression was far too unreadable for the doctor’s liking and he felt something uncomfortable in his throat, suddenly finding himself expecting the sound of a trolley in the corridor behind him. There was only one reason Inspector Thursday would be here on this day, standing silent before him. The body couldn’t be far behind him.

But it didn’t appear. 

“Inspector?” DeBryn set the towel aside, his tone imploring as he fought to keep this fledgling flicker of hope at bay. There were too many questions parceled into one, but they all seemed to be communicated in that one word that hung between them. 

The inspector looked far too tired to still be standing and DeBryn watched with silent tension as he removed his hat and held it to his chest, taking a steadying breath.

“We found him.”

That flicker of hope was dashed into shards. DeBryn found his mouth to be incredibly dry as he attempted to speak, swallowing before attempting it once more. “Is he-”

“He’s alive.” 

The utterance of those two words had an incredibly visceral effect on both men as DeBryn felt a sharp breath of relief all but punched from him as he tried not to double over, instead reaching out to grip the edge of the nearest table. He stared at some empty space on the floor as the inspector’s knees buckled once and he sank into the nearest chair, a rickety old metal thing that sat usually abandoned by the microscope on the counter. Now, it had to support Thursday as his entire form slumped, exhaustion and worry forcing his body into a piteous condition. The doctor watched him with concern, his mind only on Morse. 

_Morse was alive._

But the toll this information seemed to be taking on the inspector didn’t give DeBryn much optimism. Dead meant one thing. Alive meant far too many. Alive could mean paralysed, alive could mean broken and battered beyond repair, alive could mean comatose with no sign of waking. The ability to draw breath was only a small comfort in the face of far too many things that could be wrong. There was only one question to ask then.

“How bad?” DeBryn’s own voice sounded small to his ears. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. It was in his nature to pray for the best, but now he feared he could only expect the worst and find small relief at the truth coming only hairs short of his own imagined reality. Ten days was a long time to be plagued with his own thoughts, too often supplied by memories of the bodies that had come across his table and the various states they were in. 

Ten days was a long time for someone to suffer. Not him, but Morse. 

_Ten days._ The things that could be done to a person in _ten days-_

“Sergeant Jakes found him,” Thursday said eventually, his broad shoulders rising as he took a deep breath. It wasn’t the answer to DeBryn’s question but he knew the inspector had to tell the story his own way. He needed to get it out. “Morse-” his voice broke and it took a moment for him to gather himself back up again. “He was in a bad way. His injuries-” Thursday drew another breath. “He was in the snow, half naked, hands bound, just- just _left there.”_

 _Left there to die_ is left unsaid, but was at the same time spoken more than clearly. 

“Jakes had to revive him,” Thursday’s words are spoken with shuddering breath. “He- he hasn’t woken since.”

Between his words, DeBryn heard the unspoken plea. The reason he was here.

DeBryn forced himself to stand straighter, refusing to let emotions bow him in the same way. He couldn’t afford that now. For Thursday’s sake. For _Morse’s._ “What do you need, Inspector?” 

That drew his gaze back up and the doctor was taken aback at how haunted his dark eyes were in that moment. It was the look of a father who had been faced with the suffering of his child and was now left to fix it in any way he could. 

“I need you to help me catch the bastard who did this.”

_I need you to tell me what was done._

DeBryn nodded stiffly. “I’ll fetch my coat.”

\------

Strange would later tell Jakes that in his fervent refusal to be confined to a hospital cot for examination he’d nearly blacked a doctor’s eye. It wasn’t hard for Jakes to believe. Things had been a blur since the Jag came to a screeching halt outside of the hospital. Thursday had gathered Morse in his arms and ran into the building as fast as he could, shouting desperately for help. 

Desperate. Jakes had seen the inspector many things over their years working together, but desperate was new. 

Jakes wasn’t sure how his own legs were still working well enough to propel himself after Thursday, reaching him just as Morse was lowered onto a stretcher and swiftly wheeled away, swarmed by the white of doctors and blue of nurses, their frantic words all a haze of noise to him. 

Everything seemed to descend on him at once, an unbearable force slamming into his chest as he was assaulted with far too many things, cold, exhaustion, a fear that had still not thawed, and his head spun violently. Jakes wasn’t aware he was falling until his knees were already cracking into the floor and consciousness was rapidly becoming a thing of the past. Some time later he’d woken in a cot, no Thursday, no Morse. The word _hypothermia_ floated somewhere above him and he was vaguely aware of his snow soaked clothes being peeled from him before he did the only thing that made sense and he _lashed out-_

Only for Strange to catch his arm in a firm, unrelenting grip. 

“I need to see him.” That was all Jakes needed to say. There must have been something in his voice, something on his face, because Strange released him. 

And now he was somewhere he thought he’d never be again. Sitting at Morse’s bedside in the private hospital room, his eyes unmoving from the still form in front of him. 

The whiteness of the room made Jakes feel nauseous and he suppressed an involuntary shiver, wrapping the blanket he’d been given around his shoulders that much tighter, reaching for the cup of tea sitting on the nightstand. It was far too watered down, now lukewarm from sitting untouched for so long. There’d been a foolish part of Jakes’ mind that hadn’t wanted him to touch the tea when it was given to him. It was hot, steam curling up into the tepid air, but as cold as he was, Jakes couldn’t bring himself to take it. He had wanted to save it for Morse when he woke up. 

But of course was deluding himself by thinking it would ever possibly be that soon.

The walls were an oppressive white, as were the curtains drawn tight over the single solitary window in the corner, as was the door and the sheets and blankets and the bedframe. It felt like they were trapped within a solidified snowstorm, not yet escaped from the brutal wall of sheer white snow that blinded the view of the road- blinded any sign of hope. 

His stomach rolled as the memory crashed into him like a wave, the hopelessness of it all nearly suffocating him again. Jakes stopped nursing the unpalatable cup of tea before he could be sick. 

The poinsettia plant looked like a splash of blood against the sterile backdrop. Someone had tried to introduce a bit of festivity to the room given that Christmas was just around the corner, but it did nothing for Jakes. All he could do was stare at the man before him, waiting desperately for some sign of life other than the shallow, imperceptible breaths that passed through Morse’s oddly dark lips, purpled from cold that still had not left his body, looking not unlike the bruises that stained the rest of his body. 

A doctor had come in at some point, back when Thursday was still there occupying the chair across the bed. Jakes barely heard what was said to them, but was vaguely aware of what it was. It sounded less like a diagnosis and more like a damage report. 

Jakes couldn’t see anything below Morse’s bandaged neck because of the thick layers of blankets drawn up as far as possible around him, hot water bottles pressed close to his body to try and combat the hypothermia. Three IV lines ran underneath to one of his arms, administering saline, morphine, and something else to help with the malnourishment. 

_Malnourishment._ What a bland word. Jakes remembered the sharp lines of Morse’s ribs slicing through his lacerated chest. He wasn’t malnourished, he’d been _starved._

And that was only half of it. The innumerous wounds had been sealed with stitches and covered in bandages, but Jakes could still see the ghost of discomfort on Morse’s pale face as he lay unconscious on the bed, resting on his back- his back which was covered with angry, barely healing lashes. The bandages and morphine could only do so much against the dozens of deep cuts- _stabs-_ and the bruises that didn’t seem to end. Jakes wasn’t foolish enough to try and mess with the tap and increase the dose. But it hurt him to see Morse in any fraction of pain in this state. It hurt in a way that morphine couldn’t touch. 

Everything about this was _wrong._ Jakes couldn’t stop thinking that as his eyes roved down the length of Morse’s covered body for the- well, he couldn’t remember how many times. 

The most undressed he’d ever seen Morse was in his shirtsleeves with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows on a particularly insufferable summer day at the nick. It didn’t feel right to have found him the way he did, half naked and painfully vulnerable, his wounds exposed to the world, body exposed to the cold. Even now, in the thermal shirt and linen pajama trousers the hospital provided, even under layers of blankets and bandages, something about Morse felt incredibly bare. Awake, he had a shield around him always, invisible and seemingly impervious. It was in the way he held himself, the untempered fire in his clear eyes, the variety of stubborn expressions on his face. 

But now, far beyond the reach of consciousness, that shield was stripped away, leaving him vulnerable and exposed like a nerve. 

His once fiery hair looked dull like copper wires, combed oddly by a nurse who had no idea how incorrect it looked in comparison to its usual free, barely tamed manner. The paleness of his skin was nearly enough to wash out his freckles and there was only the barest flush on his forehead from the hot towel laid across his brow. The bones of his face seemed far sharper than what Jakes seemed possible and the cause of the darkness under his eyes was impossible to discern between bruises or prolonged sleeplessness. _His eyes._ His eyes were closed firmly shut, not so much as fluttering as they ought to in sleep. 

Jakes swallowed thickly, not caring for what that meant. The doctor had explained it in his awkward and halting way, looking between Thursday and Jakes with increasing pity. Morse was somewhere much past natural sleep. It wasn’t unconsciousness as Jakes knew it. It wasn’t like being clocked ‘round the head where he’d just come to in an hour or so. 

Morse had nearly _died._ It was nothing short of a miracle that he was even breathing right now, and Jakes knew it. There was so much his body needed to recover from, so much that his conscious mind needed to hide from. So much that was done to him. 

They were faced with two scenarios. Morse would wake when he healed. Or he wouldn't wake at all. It wasn’t a matter of time, but a matter of ‘if’.

And that knowledge felt like a knife in the chest. Jakes understood knowledge was a comfort to some, in fact it seemed to be Morse’s primary panacea against the ruthless onslaught of the world- aside from the bottle. Knowledge was his protection, a knife held valiantly in front of him. The alcohol was there to dull the sharp edges of it when it hurt him too much. It was no relief to Jakes. The blade of knowledge was buried to the hilt somewhere near his sternum, excruciating and unrelenting. 

Torture wasn’t something they were accustomed to seeing. It was the word that hung unspoken like some terrible taboo that would conjure the very thing into being by simply uttering it. There was nothing else to call it. Jakes only barely saw the wounds on Morse’s back as they were bandaged, but the angry lattice of belt marks was unmistakable to him. He’d been whipped. Beaten. Stabbed. Strangled. Chained. Starved. 

Left to die in the unforgiving cold. 

_Ten days._

And it still wasn’t over. 

Morse had his fair share of detractors, no two ways about it. After all, there was scarcely a case gone through where he didn’t rub someone up the wrong way. But to do something like _this_ to him- 

Jakes looked down at his own now bandaged hands that had curled into tight fists without his realising, the scabs over his knuckles having split, blood seeping through the white gauze. Thursday had gone to fetch Dr. DeBryn, leaving Jakes to hold vigil. There was nowhere else he could be. Jakes would serve his penance at Morse’s bedside until his sentence was complete. 

He meant what he said to Morse as he struggled to get him across the snow choked field, his words half lost to the wind. Jakes owed him. It was the kind of debt that Jakes wasn’t sure he even knew how to begin repaying. Something had changed between them in the past year, ever since the prison when Blackwood shot Morse for Jakes’ own sin. Morse had pulled through in the end, but it was _too close._

And the way Morse looked at him after, not a single ounce of blame in those oceanic eyes of his- Jakes didn’t know how he’d ever been deserving of that forgiveness. No, not even forgiveness, because he hadn’t blamed Jakes to begin with. It was- absolution. 

The moment Jakes set eyes on him the first day they met he had a sense they were destined to be natural enemies until the end of time. Looking back, they’d both been appalling in their own respective ways, but Morse never lashed out in the way Jakes did with his targeted jabs and mockery. He slung the words at Morse freely, never imagining they would ever have a chance to even so much as scratch him. Thursday would always come to his bagman’s defense but Morse never said a word of protest on his own. He just took it. 

Not because it didn’t hurt. Jakes knew that now. The only reason Morse bore any of it was because he’d had far worse from others. Scratches did nothing next to the scars already dug so deep.

Closing the gap to friendship was a journey mottled with patching up wounds, both metaphorical and physical. 

And, for the briefest moment, Jakes had considered the possibility of something more. 

But that was before all of this. 

Jakes felt a sharp flare of shame in his chest as he suddenly remembered their conversation two weeks ago. Just a few nights before Morse was taken.

_Everyone at the nick was slightly giddy with their victory. They’d finally cuffed a dangerous killer, the man the papers had taken to dubbing ‘The Cowley Ripper’. In the end it was a surgeon at Cowley General, Alistair Heathcote-Moran. He was a brash and arrogant man who had rudely refused to help with their investigation from the beginning. It wasn’t long after the fourth and final victim was found that Jakes discovered his alibis were worthless. The wounds inflicted on the victims were decided by Dr. DeBryn to be surgical. According to him, the killer deliberately avoided major arteries and organs when cutting into his victims, prolonging their suffering._

_The last victim was a woman named Elizabeth Collins. She worked in reception at Cowley General. Someone reported that they’d seen one of her headbands in Heathcote-Moran’s surgical bag. Collins had skin under her fingernails. Heathcote-Moran had scratches on his arms._

_Headband. Scratches. Surgical skills. No alibi. Opportunity. It was enough to book him. And that was the end of the Ripper’s short reign of terror._

_No one dared stay another minute past the end of their shift, already gathering their coats in preparation for celebratory drinks at the Flag. But not Morse._

_He’d protested against Heathcote-Moran’s guilt since the beginning. Morse didn’t think it was him. Even as the man was being led down to the cells, Morse had reached out to stop Jakes, telling him just as much._

_“Let it go, Morse,” Jakes tugged his arm free, giving him a more than exasperated look. “We got our man. Sometimes our job isn’t all grand conspiracies and red herrings. Sometimes the evidence just does the work for us. Get used to it.”_

_Morse looked away, fixing his gaze on the opposite wall and tugging his earlobe, fixed in thought. He didn’t shake his head, but the intention was there. “I can’t let it go. It- it just doesn’t feel right.”_

_Thursday had let out an admonishing scoff at that. “I’m going to need a lot more than a feeling to overturn an arrest, Morse.”_

_“I know, sir,” Morse said bitterly, too worn down for it to be anything close to sharp. It had been a long week for all of them. “But it’s all I have.”_

_That admission seemed to take something out of him and Jakes saw that Thursday recognised it, looking at Morse with a much gentler expression as if he felt remorseful for the younger man’s frustration. There was no stirring Morse from his ways once his mind was set and Thursday simply sighed, placing his hat atop his head and winding a dark scarf around his neck. “Well, until you find anything else…”_

_It wasn’t a challenge, but Morse took it as such, nodding stiffly and planting himself at his desk like he didn’t intend to budge from that very spot until he’d found something that would prove himself right._

_“Morse,” Jakes intoned, trying not to sound as admonishing as he wanted to be. “It’s been a long day. Just- come on. I’ll buy you a pint.”_

_If anything, it was an excuse for Morse’s company. Jakes was struggling, trying to figure out this strange thing he’d been feeling the past few weeks. He just needed to talk to him. That would solve it, surely._

_Morse flipped through his notebook, jotting something down before he opened a nearby autopsy report, continuing as if he hadn’t heard Jakes at all. Thursday shook his head and departed leaving the two of them standing in the darkened anteroom, lit only by the single lamp on Morse’s desk._

_“Morse,” Jakes tried again, a bit firmer. “Just leave it.”_

_No response._

_Jakes sighed and decided on a different angle. “Alright, fine. Just come with me, we can talk this over at the pub. Maybe I can help.”_

_“If you want to help, then help,” Morse said sharply, suddenly looking up to stare at Jakes, a flash of something in his eyes. It was the kind of determination and stubbornness that could both move mountains or convince them not to budge an inch. In that moment, he was some immovable force, even in spite of the slouch of his tired shoulders and the dark smudges under his eyes. “Otherwise you can just go.”_

_It felt like he’d been pushed five steps back from whatever he was hoping to reach. Jakes felt a rise of irritation in him and he huffed, grabbing his coat off the nearby hook. “Fine. Have it your way.”_

_The wind howled outside of the window, only a large block of the pitch dark winter night visible on the other side of the glass. The radiator hissed and rattled underneath the sill. Jakes knew the old thing would turn itself off sometime in the middle of the night and one of the boys from the morning shift would have to turn it back on. The office would get far too cold- perishing- without the radiator running and Morse, no matter how stubborn, would be forced to leave._

_Jakes gave Morse one last look before heading out, leaving him in the dark office as he pored over files searching for something he missed, something that just wasn’t there. He found Morse in that same spot the next morning, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. Morse hardly even looked at him._

_At some point, Morse had gathered up his coat and notebook and left. His presence in the nick was incredibly intermittent those next few days as he continuously went out chasing his futile leads even at Bright’s firm insistence that he simply stop this foolishness at once, why doesn’t he just take a few days leave to clear his head, the holidays are coming up and he hasn’t used any of his accumulated time-_

_But of course Morse wouldn’t give in that easily._

And the next day he was gone.

Jakes couldn’t help but blame himself as he looked at Morse now, the incorrectness of it all, his limbs laid out straight, the wounds that were hidden beneath blankets but all too stark in his memory. He should have been with Morse, should have gone with him on his searches, should have believed him. It was clear Morse hadn’t found what he was looking for out there. Something else found him first. 

Blame. That’s all Jakes wanted to do. He wanted someone to blame for this, somewhere to place his anger, his rage, his helplessness. He wasn’t good at being helpless. It never sat well with him, and right now it felt nothing less than suffocating. 

He needed a smoke. It wasn’t wise to do it in a hospital ward, especially when he wasn’t able to open the window for fear of letting the cold in when Morse was recovering from being nearly frozen to death, but Jakes was gasping for one. The comforting smell of tobacco and the feel of the cigarette between his fingers was the only constant thing that had gotten him through the past few days. He didn’t sleep, he collapsed. He didn’t eat, he smoked. 

Jakes moved the blanket aside and reached into his pocket to pull out his silver lighter, setting it on the nightstand. Morse had held it once, taking it from him before he could accidentally burn a forest down as they uncovered a body, returning it to him as they entered the prison to interrogate Blackwood. 

The carton of cigarettes in his pocket was a bit battered and less heavy than he remembered. Jakes looked at Morse, unmoving save for the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. “You don’t mind, do you?” 

No response. Jakes didn’t know what he was expecting. He opened the carton and found no comfort there either as the empty contents stared at him. Crumpling up the carton and throwing it to the ground, he swore loudly, angry at too many things to be any more eloquent. “Fuck!”

Just then, the door clicked open behind him and Jakes was on his guard in an instant. He swung around in his seat, reaching for a weapon he didn’t have- only to be presented with two familiar faces. 

“Hello, Sergeant,” Dr. DeBryn said in a kindly voice as he stepped into the room, closely followed by Inspector Thursday. Half melted flakes of snow were stuck to the coats they were both meticulously shedding and hanging up on the hooks near the door. The doctor regarded Jakes sadly, looking him up and down. “You don’t look well yourself either.”

“I’m not the one who had to be resuscitated, Doctor,” Jakes said a bit too harshly, still on the defense.

“Jakes!” Thursday’s eyes were full of anger that only lasted a moment before they settled on Morse again he sank back into the other chair, burying his head in his hands. Like he was ashamed to have raised his voice in front of the unresponsive man. If Morse was awake, he would have flinched away from the noise. But there was no such thing now. 

It only served to remind them of something they could never forget.

“It’s quite alright, Inspector,” DeBryn said sympathetically, and he gave Jakes a small smile, but it did little to mask his own exhausted appearance. He seemed aged with worry, his movements slower as he reached for the chart hanging at the end of Morse’s bed. 

Jakes understood then. He wasn’t there to provide meaningless platitudes. He was there to do his job. 

So Jakes sat back, shut up, and watched him. 

DeBryn looked at Morse, his lips thinning and a passive expression taking hold on his face, only the slightest tightness in his eyes betraying any emotion. His motions were methodical and short, like a practised routine as he catalogued injuries and compared them to the chart, only touching Morse by accident as he pulled the blankets back to resume his observations. Jakes realised that DeBryn was good at this. Making it as impersonal as he could, treating Morse like any other victim coming across his table. Being in his line of work, Jakes supposed it had been more than once that he’d been forced to face someone he knew. 

But the doctor was not without his limits and after a few more minutes he drew in a shaking breath, running a hand down his face as he set the chart aside and fell into the final available chair. DeBryn removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut firmly like he hoped to close the world out in this one action.

Eventually he opened his eyes again, and Jakes saw they were tinged with red from held back tears. It took another moment to compose himself and he breathed, preparing to give his assessment.

“I won’t waste your time telling you what you already know about his injuries,” Dr. DeBryn said evenly, his gaze falling from Morse’s body to the linoleum beneath his feet. “The only thing I can say with any certainty is that the wounds inflicted upon Morse are identical to those of the other four victims.” 

That drew a frown from Thursday, the inspector sitting up in his seat- a monumental effort by all accounts as his own exhaustion weighed him back. “What do you mean, Doctor?”

DeBryn replaced his glasses on his face. “In my professional opinion, I believe that the person who held Morse captive, the person who did this to him, is the man you know as the Cowley Ripper.” 

“But we have the Cowley Ripper,” Jakes protested, feeling slightly unsure even as he spoke. “He’s locked up at the nick.”

“Well, then, I suggest you rethink that assessment,” DeBryn said somewhat icily, looking him in the eyes. “Morse certainly did.” 

“And look where it got him.” Thursday’s voice was unsteady as he spoke, his hand reaching out to rest on Morse’s shoulder, careful to avoid the slight bulges of bandages visible under the shirt. Jakes felt a familiar flicker of old jealousy to see the level of paternal kindness Morse received and he did not, but it was gone as quick as it came. 

There were more important things to consider. 

_They had the wrong man._ Morse had been right from the beginning. It wasn’t the surgeon, Heathcote-Moran. Heathcote-Moran, who was in their cells. Heathcote-Moran who-

“This was timed,” Jakes said slowly, the cold dread of realisation filling his stomach uncomfortably. “His trial- the sawbones’ trial is this afternoon. The real killer wants us to know we had it wrong, he doesn’t want Heathcote-Moran taking credit for his own actions.”

DeBryn looked confused, an odd look for him since he was usually the provider of knowledge, not often deprived of it. “Why not just let the surgeon take the fall?”

“Because he’s proud,” Thursday said through gritted teeth, his expression dark. “His ego won't permit it.”

It was as they feared. It was one of _those_ killers. 

There was a moment of silence where the only thing audible was Morse’s soft breathing that never hitched or changed. Jakes didn’t know if that was good or not, considering his state.

“I need to phone Mr. Bright.” Thursday stood, casting one last look down at Morse before he steeled his expression into something similar to the one DeBryn had on earlier. “I’ll tell him we need to put the trial off and speak to Dr. Heathcote-Moran. And until we catch the real killer we’ll need a guard posted on the door. Just in case he gets any funny ideas about finishing the job.”

It suddenly felt much easier to breathe, knowing that Morse would at least be safe in that regard. 

Thursday left and DeBryn made to do the same but Jakes reached out for him, catching him by the arm before he could go too far.

“Is he-” Jakes swallowed down a lump of emotion. It wasn’t like him to be so uncomposed and he worked to recover himself quickly but largely failed. “Will he recover?”

DeBryn looked at Morse, his expression falling into something akin to pity that sent Jakes’ skin crawling. Pity. He didn’t want pity. He hated it. It was a relief when that expression changed into something else, something- hopeful.

“He shouldn’t be alive,” DeBryn’s voice was softer than Jakes had ever heard it. No jibes or quips. The only man who seemed to even understand them was all but dead to the world. “But he is. Morse is perhaps one of the most resilient people I know, present company excluded. He’ll pull through eventually.”

It was exactly what Jakes needed to hear. He nodded stiffly, turning back to watch Morse when he felt DeBryn’s hand on his shoulder, causing him to look back up at the pathologist.

“Find whoever did this, would you?” 

And with that, he was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Anachronism
> 
> Prepare for Morse's POV next chapter as we get into those missing ten days, I'll make sure to put warnings for violence in the notes when it comes to it. More explanations about the Cowley Ripper will be coming as needed, hopefully this wasn't too confusing. The references to Blackwood and prison are from my other fic 'Prisoner' which is set before this one and sort of works in tandem with it in terms of Jakes/Morse's relationship and where they stand going into this. It's not too long if you fancy a read between updates here. Shameless self plug? Shameless self plug.
> 
> Also I know I promised this would be a Jarse fic and I swear it is, it's just very much in the beginning where Jakes is still even figuring out what the hell any of this is because emotions be confusing like that and these boys are still navigating the terrain of their friendship- but of course here's a massive angsty roadblock. I'm not sure the relationship will take centre stage since obviously it's a very fledgling thing and this might just end up being a whole deal with Jakes pining but there's a happy ending. We'll see, I guess?
> 
> This chapter was pretty much everyone decompressing from a painful period of time and regrouping before heading back into battle once again. Needless to say, emotions are high and the fellas are dealing with it in their own ways. I'M SORRY FOR THE PAIN


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